Nestled deep within a valley ringed by mountains lies a quiet village. Beyond a narrow road that only a car can pass, there stands the single-story farmhouse where I began my new life this spring.
My name is Manami Miura, twenty-five years old, a freelance illustrator. My work had finally become steady enough that I could leave behind the constant noise of the city. Seeking peace and silence, I chose this tranquil countryside.
I had toured many places on my days off, yet nothing felt quite right—until a work acquaintance introduced me to this village. A senior of theirs, a programmer, had been living here while working remotely. When he was transferred overseas, he offered to pass on the house he had been renting.
A quiet village with a fully functional internet connection—what more could I ask for?
The house stood on a small plateau, with only four homes scattered far apart. Between each lay wide fields of rice and vegetables, so far apart that even passing someone on the road was rare. On the afternoon I finished unpacking the last heavy boxes, the doorbell rang.
Opening the door, I found a tall man standing there in a crisp white polo shirt and gray slacks.
“Hello. I hear you’ve just moved in.”
His hair was white, yet carefully styled in a neat pompadour that lent him a certain rugged charm. Seventy, perhaps? But he looked far younger than the number suggested.
“I live… well, not exactly next door, but close by. My name is Kato. I run a small clinic in the area. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you. I’m Miura. It’s nice to meet you.”
I bowed politely, then found myself studying his face. A faint smile lingered at his lips, his features sharp and defined—and his gaze… there was something about it.
We had exchanged only a few words, yet a strange warmth had begun to bloom deep within me.
Kato handed me a small card. “My clinic’s location and contact details,” he said simply before turning to leave. Without looking back, he walked away at an unhurried pace, and I found myself watching until he disappeared from sight.
That evening, as steam curled from a pot of miso soup in the kitchen, my mind drifted back to him.
…Was it my imagination, or was there something unusual about his eyes?
It felt as though he’d been looking straight through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. Since moving here, I’d often gone without a bra, and perhaps something had shown through.
“…Maybe it’s just a doctor’s way of looking,” I murmured to myself, tugging at the hem of my shorts without thinking. The memory of his eyes drifting down to my legs came unbidden.
Back in the city, I was used to men’s glances—at parties, on crowded trains—places where my guard was naturally down.
But here? In the countryside, in the quiet of an afternoon doorway?
The setting sun bled crimson through the paper shoji screens. A breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the faint scent of grass.
“…Strange feeling,” I whispered, shaking my head. Yet the restless stir inside me refused to fade.
My heartbeat quickened. I pulled the neckline of my T-shirt closed, and once again his smile came to mind.
Were those gentle eyes born of kindness alone… or something else?
As I ladled soup into a bowl, my gaze drifted toward the front door.
“…I wonder if he’ll come by again.”
The thought made something flutter inside my chest, and a small smile crept across my lips.
Life in the countryside was meant to be quiet, calm… but an unexpected ripple had begun to awaken within me.
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